Complications
by Mad Server
Summary: A bad case of hypothermia leads to a cold, which leads to a broken rib, which leads to overmedication and guilt. Poor Dean. Happy birthday, Lia!


_A/N: And now some silly fluffy birthday fic for one of the nicest people I know, Liafrombrazil. In LA this girl GAVE me a J2 photo op. Who DOES that? People who shower three times a day and live off chocolate and look like Alanis Morissette, that's who. Big thank you to Enkidu07, another one of the nicest people I know, for the super-speedy beta._

* * *

They can hear him breathing. It's how they find him: long, ragged gasps and noisy swallows drift to them through the trees.

"Dean!"

His face pokes out from behind a trunk. It's blue-lipped and bright-eyed. "S-S-Sam?"

"You fucking dumbass." Sam's down beside him, picking up the discarded jacket and stuffing Dean's arms through the holes. "Goddamn it. Are you OK?"

Puffing, Bobby catches up. "Thank God."

"Let me see you." Sam stretches Dean up toward the sky, feels him shaking and doesn't let go. "Crap. Hey. You're OK. Say something."

"Hot." Dean paws at his jacket, head buried in Sam's armpit. "Off."

"No no no." Sam steals a hand in against his brow to make sure. "You're not hot. You're cold, man. Don't touch that."

Dean raises a mussed head and peers at him.

"Poor son of a bitch." Bobby pats Dean's chilly cheek. "He's pretty far gone, Sam. Gotta warm him up just right."

"Damn it." Sam strokes down Dean's arm and shifts him a bit higher. "Hospital?"

"For starters, you'd better carry him."

"Hot..."

"Shhhh. Agh, you're heavy. Hang on. Just hang on."

* * *

He claws at the oxygen tube, pats the bedside table.

"Hey, hey. What's going on? You need that."

Dean's breath hitches, his face twisting up.

"Oh." Sam shoves a tissue into his hand.

_"HISHSHH_UH! Fuckigg... _TZHZHRSHSHH!"_

"Put it back on. Hurry up."

Dean blows his nose and throws the Kleenex at Sam. "You try hurryigg up. H-hhh..._HRXCHTSHGK!"_

Forearm raised to block, Sam forces two more tissues into Dean's palm. "Dude, that oxygen's there for a reason."

"Fuckigg tickles."

"It sucks. I know." Sam glances around for a nurse. "You got a cold?"

Dean mops at his nostrils and lies back. "Fuckigg hospitals."

* * *

It's not even an injury Dean can brag about.

Cast iron teapot poised for a refill, Sam's leaning over Bobby's couch where Dean's laid up. The handle's greasy with bacon fat and unfamiliar in Sam's hands. The whole thing crashes onto Dean's torso.

Later, when Dean's shirtless, red-chested and strewn with cool tea towels, a hiss and a jerk reveal one broken rib.

"Damn it. I'm sorry."

"This week just gets better add better."

"I'm so sorry."

"Hh-HH... ugh. I'b gudda sdeeze. I dod't wadda sdeeze."

"Don't sneeze."

"It's really gudda hurt dao."

"I know. Don't sneeze."

"Get bee subb bedicid."

"You're not due for another three hours."

"Screw that."

"Dean... are you-"

"Ah-hhHHH..."

"Wait! I'll be right back."

* * *

"Sidce whed do you have a beard?"

Bobby blinks at Sam. "How much did you give him?"

Sam sighs. "Shut up."

Bobby raises his eyebrows, holds out the duct tape. "Least he looks comfortable. You wanna do the honors?"

"Thanks." Sam crouches by Dean's hip and rucks up his hoodie.

"Your eyes are the exact color of flowers."

Sam snorts. "Really." He tears a length off the roll and carefully lowers it.

Dean flinches. He bats at Sam's hands, misses and gets him in the chin.

"Oof. Easy, tiger." Sam presses the stickiness gently into Dean's skin. "There. Good to go."

"We goigg subwhere?"

Sam smoothes sweat off Dean's forehead. "Yeah. We're going to sleep."

Dean sighs, pulls up the corner of Sam's shirt and wipes his nose on it.

"Hey! God. Need a Kleenex?" Sam stuffs one down against Dean's face. His shirt snaps back.

"Think he likes you, Sam."

* * *

Sam wakes up in the dark. There's snuffling sounds, then a sharp sigh.

"Dean?"

A rattling cough explodes.

"Whoa. Hey." Sam throws on a lamp, eyes his brother. "You OK?"

"Yeah." Dean's upright on the couch, cradling his ribcage, squinting down. "You odd the floor?"

"Yeah, man."

"Why?"

"Good for the spine."

Dean reaches toward his pocket. It's a good thirty seconds before he makes it back out with a tissue. Then he fumbles, drops it onto his knee, and can't find it.

Sam passes it up to him. "Need some more meds?"

"I've beed thigkigg."

"Yeah?"

Contemplatively Dean blows his nose. "I should dever take meds agaid."

"Why not?"

"Too buch thigkigg."

Sam leans back against a chair. "You want some tea?"

Dean looks at him as if through binoculars and scratches one red nostril. "Dot id a pot, Sabby."

"Deal."


End file.
